


the anniversary

by bluebeholder



Series: the accidental epic [40]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Arguing, Books, Brazilian Politics, Breaking Tables, Broomsticks, Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Holi, Letters, M/M, Minor Angst, Sickfic, Sunday Evenings, Vignettes, cliff diving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 18:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14171226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Snapshots of Credence and Graves, one year later.Still in love and, more importantly, still here. Together.Unrepentant, lovesick fluff without plot.





	the anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> Happy anniversary, everyone. <3 
> 
> Today, one year ago, I started posting “a better mirror”. Here’s a bit of a treat…to celebrate, to commemorate, and to look forward to the future. 
> 
> The first vignette here takes place during [chapter 15 of “a better mirror”](%E2%80%9C)—and yes, this is confirmation a year later that Credence did, in fact, realize his feelings right at that exact moment. All the subsequent vignettes are arranged in chronological order.

_on the shore of lake michigan at the start of an adventure_

 

He can’t help it, watching Mr. Graves. Well—just Graves, Credence supposes, after tonight. The man is compelling, with his piercing dark eyes and impressive figure. Credence thinks he’s handsome, but then again he’d thought the same of Grindelwald. Still, Graves is different. There was a temptation about Grindelwald, something that called Credence to fall for him, to worship him like a false idol. And there is none of that with Graves, who is sometimes stern but never cruel, often taciturn but always kind.

Just now, Credence is helping Newt empty sand into the bathtub holding the Labbu eggs. He keeps thinking of what happened earlier, when they were standing on the rocks. Of course he caught Graves when he nearly fell—who wouldn’t?—but for some reason, Credence hadn’t wanted to let go. He’d been content to stand there, in proximity that he could never manage in the daylight, and of course Graves let him do what he wanted, just like he always does.

Credence is standing by with a bag of sand, waiting for Newt to finish carefully pouring in the one he’s got, when he happens to look up and see Graves coming out of the workshop. He was looking in on Queenie, more concerned for her wellbeing than his own, as usual. When he sees Credence, he smiles and nods, before going off to check on another of Newt’s animals.

As it always does, that smile makes something feel funny behind Credence’s ribs, something light and hot and the exact opposite of the Obscurus.

He thinks about it, what with that thing earlier on the rocks, and how this feels, and not wanting to let go, and how he thought he felt about Graves all the way back when Graves wasn’t Graves at all, and everything that’s happened in between…

And then something clicks. Credence drops the sandbag with a thud and stares after the older man, thoughts coming to a screeching halt. “I’m in love with him,” he whispers, awestruck.

“Credence? Are you all right?” Newt asks, looking over the bathtub at him.

“I’m all right,” Credence says, breaking into a smile he just can’t shake. “I’m better than all right.”

 

***

 

_outside a secret house somewhere in the mountains of russia_

 

“Tell me,” Credence drawls, “when was the last time you were on a broomstick?”

The consternated expression on Percival’s face is infinitely entertaining. “I was a Junior Auror,” he says stiffly. “I fell off one too many times. And Americans aren’t particularly tied to broomsticks, so no one…until you…has judged me.”

“Look, Jacob has ridden a broomstick,” Credence says, leaning on the broom, “even though Newt was the one actually doing the steering.”

Percival folds his arms and tries to look forbidding. “Jacob has little regard for his dignity.”

Credence makes a show of looking around the empty alpine meadow they’re standing in. “Well, there’s no one but me to see you now, and it’s not like you’ve got any dignity left for me anyway.”

“Oh, shut up,” Percival says tolerantly. “Set the broom on the ground, go on.”

Dropping the broom on the ground, Credence raises his brows inquiringly. “Now?”

“Hold your hand out over it and command: ‘Up!’”

Credence does as he says, and instantly the broom leaps into his hand.

“Well done,” Percival says, sounding a little surprised. “That was quick. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, you’re a prodigy.”

“Thank you,” Credence says smartly. He winks, and Graves rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be a flirt, you need to focus. You’re going to have to get on it.”

Careful, Credence swings one leg over the broomstick. His feet are still on the ground, but he can sense the way that the broomstick wants to fly. It’s a touch nerve-wracking, now he’s about to actually fly. “…and now?”

A grin is trying to blossom on Percival’s face, but he masters it and just raises one eyebrow. “I think you’d better just fly,” he says. “Or are you afraid of losing your dignity?”

That’s just too much. Credence pushes off the ground and lets the broom carry him into the air, feeling weightless and even joyful. But then a gust of wind catches him, and all he can do is hang on.

Thirty seconds later, Percival is laughing so hard that he has to sit down as Credence tries to get down out of the pine trees he’s just crashed into.

 

***

 

_in that same house, some time later, on an ordinary day_

 

Credence gets sick.

He doesn’t realize it’s happening until it’s too late. He chalks the early fever chills up to nerves about the impending publication of a major work, the cough to autumn allergies, the drowsiness to too many nights writing late. And then he wakes up shaking, unable to stand, dizzy, too hot and too cold all at once, coughing and sneezing, and stutters to Percival, “I th-th-think I might be s-sick.”

Percival, of course, spirals straight into a full-blown panic.

Anyone who isn’t Credence might not be able to tell, but Credence knows. Percival Summons every damn blanket and pillow in the house in the name of making Credence comfortable. He starts soup going. He does whatever Credence asks, which is mostly “hold me, I feel awful”.

Credence dozes in and out fitfully all day. He wakes up long enough to get to the sitting room, where he collapses on a couch and can’t get any further. Percival is rarely out of arm’s reach, feeding him when Credence’s hand shakes so badly he can’t hold the spoon and making sure that he drinks enough water.

The next day Credence feels like he’s burning alive. His lips are cracked and chapped, his skin prickles at the slightest touch, and he can’t get warm under six layers of blankets. He’s not quite asleep and not quite awake. The Obscurus comes loose, filling half the house with swirling heat and fever-dreams, and Credence can’t pull himself together long enough to bring it back in.

He has a vague recollection of Percival Fire-Calling everyone he knows, and Credence is briefly very thankful that they’d set up an illegal Floo, even if it constantly malfunctions and isn’t safe to travel through. He remembers Newt yelling at Percival about wrapping Credence up, because that’s apparently dangerous. Jacob and Queenie scoff at the idea of starving the fever and tell Percival to make sure Credence eats. It’s Tina, though, who gives the best and worst advice.

“Up you get, come on,” Percival says gently, helping Credence to his feet.

“Where are we going?” Credence asks, clutching at Percival for dear life. He can barely keep his feet.

Percival guides him to the bathroom. The tub is full of water and even half delirious Credence knows what’s coming. He immediately tries to back out the door. “Come on,” Percival says. “We have to bring your fever down.”

“No, please, Percival, don’t—” Credence might be crying. “I’ll be all right—”

“You won’t,” Percival says, gentle and implacable. Credence, though he does his best, feels weak as a kitten and can’t pull away from Percival as the other man Vanishes their clothes and helps Credence into the water.

It doesn’t register for a second, as he’s going out of his mind with panic, but finally it breaks through the fog in his head that Percival is still holding him. Percival has them situated so that Credence is almost all the way in the water. But both of Percival’s arms are around him, and his head is pillowed on Percival’s chest. Credence doesn’t trust himself to speak. He’s shivering so hard he thinks he might actually fly apart—join the rest of the fragments of himself seething around the walls—but he’s safe, so he doesn’t.

“This isn’t supposed to be big enough for both of us,” Credence rasps, when he finally feels clearer.

“I may have enlarged it slightly,” Percival says. He lets it be for a moment, and finally says, “I’m sorry about this. I know you hate being in water like this.”

“Just don’t leave me alone in here,” Credence says. It’s easy to forget where he is, what’s happening, when he can feel Percival’s heartbeat, strong and steady under his ear.

Percival kisses the top of his head. “Not for the world.”

And then he coughs.

There’s a moment of total stillness.

“Percival Graves,” Credence says slowly, raising his head a bit so he can see Percival’s face, “did you actually go and get yourself sick taking care of me?”

“No!” Percival says. He coughs again and makes a face. “Possibly.”

Credence can’t help it. He laughs, and the laughter quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. Percival’s arms tighten around Credence, holding him steady until the tearing coughs subside. They don’t move, and slowly Credence begins to drift off. He’s comfortable and safe. He’ll be all right, as long as Percival is there.

 

***

 

_on the streets of calcutta, traveling the world with family_

 

The festival whirls around them, people singing and shouting and clapping joyously. Graves keeps tenuous hold of Credence’s hand, and Tina has hold of Queenie who has hold of Jacob. No one knows where Newt is, but they all trust he’ll pop up eventually.

It is Holi in Calcutta, and even though they’re all foreigners and Newt is British they’re welcomed to participate. Today, Newt had explained, is a day when everyone sets aside their differences to celebrate love and joy and harmony. People are throwing colors, in a brilliant and vivid rainbow, filling the air with clouds of color that cover everyone. The air smells of the dye in the powders—turmeric, sandalwood, jacaranda—and of the food cooking in every house.

Graves is a little overwhelmed. It’s loud, in the No-Maj parts of the city, but here in the magical district there are flashes and bangs of fireworks going off on every corner. Even Credence takes part, his favorite Flaming Colors Charm leaping from his wand to dance like streamers in the air.

Someone pulls them into a dance and Credence goes willingly, Graves following behind. He only just stays with the young man. The music is wild and celebratory, thrumming straight into the blood as only the best music does. He doesn’t know the steps, and neither does Credence, but next thing Graves knows Credence is spinning them around and around until they collapse against each other, dizzy and a little giddy.

There’s a touch of anxiety in the giddiness, though, and it must show. Credence pulls him aside, out of sight into an alley. “All right?” he asks.

“Of course,” Graces says. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Credence says. His smile is brilliant, a slash of white between the rainbows dusting his face. “I love you. So very much.”

It’s good that they’re out of sight of anyone who might disapprove, because Graves just leans in and kisses Credence, right there and then.

 

***

 

_back home in the house in russia, getting up to mischief_

 

Graves hits the table with the back of his legs and avoids falling over only because Credence catches him. Unfair, since Credence was the one who backed him into the table, but there’s no time to worry about that because Credence isn’t stopping. Graves is perfectly content to let Credence manhandle him, because at some point in the next two minutes he’ll do that trick where he Vanishes their clothes and Graves will get to have fun.

Credence has grown strong, all that time spent climbing in the mountains and handling the physical labor Graves can’t, and he’s taking advantage of it now. Next thing Graves knows, Credence is sweeping him right off his feet and dropping him on the table, stepping in between Graves’ legs with obvious intent, putting all of their collective weight on the table.

But this table was not meant to bear the weight of two grown men. There’s an alarming creak, and then they’re both crashing to the ground, splintered wood flying everywhere, Credence landing right on top of Graves, knocking the wind out of them both.

There’s a split second of silence, then they both burst into laughter. The mood is absolutely ruined, but it’s fine. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” Credence says between hysterical giggles, and Graves can’t find it in himself to regret the splinters he’s going to have to pick out later.

 

***

 

_in credence’s garden, listening to a rambling lecture_

 

“—and so the obvious answer is that Minister Ferreira should support the existing government, even if it’s only subtle,” Credence says, holding up one hand toward the sun so it shades his eyes. “Getúlio Vargas is on his way to Rio de Janeiro already—or he was three days ago when the paper came out—and I don’t think any of this can end well. Can you imagine what a difference magic would make?”

It’s spring and they’re laying outside on the grass, enjoying the first warm and sunny day in months. Credence just can’t stop talking about politics, though. Since he just finished reading the Daily Prophet—a packet of copies which Queenie and Jacob send from London every week—he has a lot to say.

Graves, on his side, propped on one elbow so he can look at Credence properly, smiles. “Of course I can,” he says. “Indulge my curiosity. Why do you care so much about events in Brazil?”

Credence turns his head to look at Graves. He’s so beautiful in the sun, nose a little red from sunburn and eyes gleaming with passion and life. “Because events in one country affect events in others,” he says. “If the Brazilians took a stand now, even tacitly, it would change the rest of the wizarding world. Other states would have to take actual notice of what’s happening in their No-Maj counterparts, and…you aren’t even listening, are you?”

“I am,” Graves says. With his free hand, he reaches over and tucks a loose lock of hair behind Credence’s ear. “And I always will.” At that, Credence smiles, and then he goes back to his lecture on Brazilian politics. Graves keeps watching Credence, and listening, and falling a little more in love with every word.

 

***

 

_in a flat in london, separated by half a continent_

 

He sends Credence a letter, while Credence is in London. Credence reads it by the window in the living room of Jacob and Queenie’s flat, smiling over the careful script and editorial style. He’s used to a much more effusive Percival, someone who gives as good as he gets, who reads up on everything he doesn’t need to know just so he can challenge Credence in evening debate. This—this is much more brief. It’s…restrained. Yes, that’s the word.

The mundane details, Percival says, are the same as ever. The plants are growing well, he hasn’t burned down the house, he’s doing his best to eat more than coffee and toast. _I miss your midnight writing_ , he writes, and Credence has a sudden, painful vision of Percival sitting alone in the study, quietly brooding. _I hope that London is everything you hoped, that you are experiencing everything you can’t here in Russia. You know I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to stay forever._

They’d had a small fight about this visit, just before Credence left for England. Percival is determined that Credence should stay in London, or at least that he should continue to travel with Newt, to see the world. Meanwhile, Credence is determined that he’ll come home when the visit is over, and this letter just confirms his plan.

Percival’s closing is almost hesitant, the careful script wobbling, the words tentative. _I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss you_ , he writes. _I love you, Credence._

 

***

 

_in the house in russia, and in a storm_

 

The storm breaks over the mountains with the force of a bomb going off. The first roar of thunder shakes the walls, and Graves, shocked out of his reading, bolts upright, wand already in his hand before he realizes that it’s just a thunderstorm. Raindrops strike the windows, and outside he sees the flash of lightning. He sets down the book and wanders into the kitchen, absently thinking of closing the windows. But then he looks outside and stops, staring.

Credence is out there in the rain, facing into the storm with his head tipped back and eyes closed, clothes and hair plastered to his skin. He doesn’t look human, with the storm light casting weird shadows across his face and hands, and when he opens his eyes they’re as white as lighting. Graves isn’t sure if he’s afraid or aroused at the sight.

But then Credence glances at the window and sees Graves, and just like that he’s the perfectly ordinary man Graves knows well. He runs for the house and comes flying into the kitchen, dripping water into a puddle around his feet, shoving wet hair out of his eyes and laughing.

Now Graves could almost convince himself that the strangeness around the eyes was only a reflection of the lightning, that eerie cast of Credence’s face was just a trick of the light. While Credence strips out of his soaked clothes, Graves brings warm blankets—because Warming and Drying Charms are, in his professional opinion, nothing compared to physical creature comforts—and starts dinner going, for later, with an absent flick or two of his wand.

They huddle together in the study, Credence wrapped up in blankets with his damp hair steadily turning Graves’ shirt into a soaking mess. They don’t speak much, just sit and listen to the rain hammering down on the house, the thunder shaking the mountains.

And in the silence Graves holds Credence close, because something inside of him is whispering a warning, a terrible warning that not everything is as it seems. Credence has said nothing, but—Graves knows well how much silence is worth, when it comes to knowing the truth.

 

***

 

_at an unhappy moment in the house_

 

“Don’t—don’t just walk away,” Credence storms. The shadows quake around his feet. “You need to talk to me!”

Graves is fairly sure he’s about two seconds from actually hexing Credence. “You’re irrational,” he fires back, going to the door. “I’m not discussing this until you stop shouting.”

“Percival!”

“We are not having this conversation until we’ve both calmed down!” Graves snaps.

Credence’s fingers catch in his shirtsleeve and Graves glances at the young man, who’s looking less angry and more panicked. “I’m sorry, I should have—please don’t—don’t go—”

Graves forces himself to pause and breathe. Having Graves walk away is one of Credence’s worst fear; they’ve talked about that before. His boggart appears as Graves, dissolving into sand. It’s an understandable fear. It is also a fear that, right now, is going to end in them getting hurt. “Credence,” he says, “I need a minute away from you to think. Let go.”

“But—”

“We aren’t going to get anywhere,” Graves says with certainty. He’s still furious, and it’s taking all his self-control not to actually shout. “I’m not leaving forever. I just need to think. And I need you to let go of me.”

Credence does, and Graves walks out the door without another word. He goes to the kitchen and he paces, back and forth, thinking about what just happened and how to proceed, until he finally calms down. And then he goes back in, so that they can talk, and fix things.

 

***

 

_in the village next door, on a sunday_

 

On Sundays, Credence goes down to church in the village. He’s been going more and more regularly, and slowly getting a little more Russian every time. He has some passing friends, now, though Graves knows that he still prefers to spend most of his time alone. And it’s good for Credence to be out of the house.

While Credence is at church this morning, Graves goes for a walk. He enjoys the sun, the wind in the trees; when he gets home and Credence is still missing, he just shakes his head and goes about the rest of his day. There is something pleasant about having the house to himself. All the same, when Credence comes home just as the sun is going down, Graves is rather ready to see him.

“Sorry I was out so long,” Credence says, banging in the door. Graves, reading at the table, looks up and smiles. Credence looks sunburned and sleepy; as he takes off his jacket, he yawns widely. “The Sokolov grandmother apparently heard about our garden problem and wanted to show me a thing or two, so I went with her and then I looked up and it was practically night…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Graves says. He stands up, leaving the book where it is, and takes Credence by the elbow, pulling him into the sitting room. “Come on.”

With a flick of his wand he sets their small record player going before settling into the armchair. He expects Credence to do his usual maneuver of stretching out in front of the fire; instead, Credence drops right onto Graves in the chair. It takes a moment but they sort themselves out. Graves holds Credence; Credence mostly curls up on Graves with his legs hanging over the arm. It’s warm and good, though Credence’s hair, smelling of plants and the outdoors, tickles Graves’ nose.

He's not surprised when Credence twists around a little bit, wriggling awkwardly, and kisses him. The young man is insatiable. His lips are a little cracked from a day spent in the sun, but Graves doesn’t mind. He’s more than happy to let Credence push him back into the chair, taking whatever he wants, the kiss warm and slow and sweet.

“You just confessed all your sins today. Do you really want this on your conscience?” Graves murmurs, after a little while, smiling when Credence rolls his eyes at the tease.

“I’ll be there next Sunday. I’ll just…make sure to confess again,” Credence replies, before diving in to kiss Graves again.

 

***

 

_in the living room of the house, on the eve of a family visit_

 

“Well, this child will be literary,” Credence says, looking into the box. It’s all slender little volumes, children’s books. “I doubt Newt and Tina are getting this many books…”

“Someone has to look after his education, and if this village is raising a child…” Percival points out.

Credence sighs. “We should probably read these, before we turn them to mold a young mind.”

There are ten books. There’s Millions of Cats, a story about looking for the most beautiful cat in the world. The Story of Doctor Dolittle, which is, in Percival’s words, “a book about Newt”. Three books about a boy named William, who has wild adventures with his band of boys called the Outlaws, which decidedly remind Credence of his family. Four books by A.A. Milne: Winnie-the-Pooh, The House At Pooh Corner, When We Were Very Young, and Now We Are Six. And finally a book neither of them have ever heard of called “The Velveteen Rabbit”.

Over the course of the day—they put off anything else in favor of something fun—they read all of the books. Or—well, Percival reads them aloud while Credence lounges and listens. They’re all a bit advanced for a year-old child, but what else can they do?

“I think I am a Camel who is looking for a Camel who is looking for its Young…” Percival says, drawing to the close of the poem “Busy”.

Credence hops to his feet, pulls Percival up too, and swings them both around in a circle. “So round about and round about and round about and round about and round about and round about I go!”

“Stop, stop!” Percival laughs, dropping the book. “I think we’ve just about exhausted that one.”

“Right,” Credence says, kissing Percival on the cheek. “So. Just the Velveteen Rabbit?”

 Credence lays down with his head on Percival’s lap while Percival reads this one, because it’s late and they’re both getting tired. The story seems to be sweet, but eventually it isn’t, quite, not to Credence’s ears. Especially not the part about becoming Real.

“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.” Percival stops, and continues after a moment. “Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’” He stops again.

“Go on,” Credence says softly.

And Percival does, though he has to stop and start a few times throughout. But then the Rabbit is put out to be burned, because of the Boy’s scarlet fever. “Of what use was it to be loved and lose one’s beauty and become Real if it all ended like this?”

The question hangs in the air, and Percival doesn’t answer it. There are ghosts in all the corners of the room and Credence feels as if he might cry. Slowly, he sits up and takes the book from Percival’s hands. “I’ll go on,” he says, and Percival’s eyes are distant as he nods. So Credence reads, all the way through as the Fairy appears to the Rabbit to rescue him. “‘You were Real to the Boy,’ the Fairy said, ‘because he loved you. Now you shall be Real to every one.’”

“Stop,” Percival says.

“We’re almost to the end,” Credence says, and bites his lip.

“I don’t think we need to finish it,” Percival says, a little unsteadily.

Credence sets the book aside. He pulls Percival into a hug. There are still days—too many of those, even now—where Percival can barely look in the mirror long enough to shave. Where his eyes are distant like they are now and Credence doesn’t know where he’s gone. When he’s told Credence that he doesn’t feel real.

And there are still too damn many days when Credence feels the same way.

“You’re real,” Credence says after a minute or two of silence.

“We both are,” Percival replies. “We’re still here.”

“Still here,” Credence repeats. They’re pressed together so tightly that it feels like they aren’t really separate people at all. Like this, and for right now, Credence feels Real.

 

***

 

_near a house that is now called home_

 

“Is this what you did, back when you were a young idiot in Wampus?” Credence asks, watching as Percival walks up to the edge and stands there.

“I was a particularly stupid teener, to be fair,” Percival says carelessly. He’s already pulled off his shoes and the vast majority of his clothes, and Credence follows, finally yanking his shirt over his head. “And unless I miss my guess, you were not stupid during those years.”

“I was sensible and responsible, yes,” Credence says, tossing his hair ostentatiously. He steps up beside Percival and peers over the edge. The lake below is deep and blue and cold, and this is a rather high cliff. “That may be why I’m still alive.”

Percival laughs. “It’s high time you were everything but sensible and responsible.” He holds out his hand. “Come on.”

With a sigh of resignation, Credence takes Percival’s. It’s taken them weeks to get to this point, where Credence doesn’t panic just at the thought of being submerged in the water. He’s still got a shiver of trepidation, but is sure that if anything goes wrong he has an immediate out: Percival is not going to let anything bad happen to him. “Ready?” Percival asks with a grin.

“In case we don’t make it,” Credence says with dignity, “I think you should know that I love you dearly, and that’s the only reason I’m doing this.”

Percival squeezes his hand. “So you are ready, then.”

“Let’s go,” Credence says.

And, hand in hand, they jump.

**Author's Note:**

> In 1930, Brazil had a revolution. A summary (paraphrased from Wikipedia because it’s the shortest summary I could find after spending way more hours than necessary reading up on the subject and didn’t want to write y’all a second fic down here today): the Revolution of 1930 was an armed movement that ended in a coup, ousting a sitting president, preventing the inauguration of a new one, and ending the Old Republic. On March 1, 1930, elections for President were held and victory was won by the government's candidate, Júlio Prestes; after the coup, Prestes was exiled and Getúlio Vargas assumed the leadership of the provisional government on November 3, 1930. Vargas is a controversial figure indeed (you can check out his Wikipedia page here), and his political stances (heavily authoritarian and populist) weren’t the kind of thing that Credence would appreciate. 
> 
> All of the books for the kid were published in the 1920s. And you’ll get to meet this kid soon enough, I promise!
> 
> And now for the sappy stuff. 
> 
> Whether you've been here from Day One, on April 1 2017, or if you're just joining the journey today, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I will never forget this year, and although this story is far from done yet, this is a pretty important milestone. Hundreds of thousands of words, hundreds of comments, hundreds of _people_ who are all playing in this sandbox together. Dare I say that this is its own tiny community? I know so many AO3 handles, people I'll never meet physically, who I adore anyway. We come from all around the world, points _across the globe_ , and here we are together.
> 
> Thanks for being here, my friends. This journey wouldn't be the same without you. <3<3<3


End file.
